


tie my handle bars to the stars

by theatrythms



Category: Final Fantasy, Final Fantasy Type-0
Genre: 24/7 supermarkets, Family, Father-Daughter Relationship, Fluff, Gen, Modern AU, Unexpected family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-04
Updated: 2016-05-04
Packaged: 2018-06-06 09:32:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6748426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatrythms/pseuds/theatrythms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"What's your favourite flavour?"<br/>"I don't like ice cream."<br/>"How can you not like ice cream?!"<br/>"I'm from Milites, why would we eat something the same temperature as the air around us?"<br/>"You're hella frickin' weird, you know that mister."<br/>-<br/>Qator Bashtar has a child he had no idea existed, Aria Luricara isn't as shy as she seems, and Kurasame Susaya wants to know why he keeps hiring teenagers to run his 27/4 mini-mart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tie my handle bars to the stars

**Author's Note:**

> lmAO WHAT IS THIS  
> i just got a weird bought of inspiration on like sunday to write this and here we are, 6k words later and a weird sense of pride for getting this done. I'm really happy that I got it finished so soon, and I think (I hope) its adequate. I love all the Type-0 fanfiction thats on both here and ff.net you have no idea how lucky we all are to be such a small fandom but to have so many great writers!! Thank you for reading!  
> aLSO the title comes from cave in by owl city !

Qator Bashtar isn't going to lie; he hates Arkham.

For the most part, it's a lovely city. Nice buildings, traditional styles, fountains with fresh running memories and pretty clean up sweepers that keep the streets and paths tidy. It's the opposite of Ingram, and that's why he hates it. From the two weeks he's spent in the capital of Rubrum, he's realised that the greatest secret the Militesi Empire has ever hidden from its people, is the fact that Rubrum is _so much nicer,_ than the gritty, horrible streets of every major city in Ingram. Also, Rubrum is warm, like, most of the time. It's rained lightly twice in those two weeks, and it's hot enough that he only has to wear a light jacket when he walks down to the orphanage every morning.

Qator walks to the orphanage every morning because apparently for the last thirteen years, he's had a daughter in Rubrum, whose mother has just died. He doesn't even remember Melody Luricara, or the passionate days he spent with her when he was just nineteen. He was a student, young and ill equipped to handle what happens when an older lecturer took an interest in him. So he put out, didn't realise he didn't pull out, and now has a quiet child he's making sure gets into a nice enough foster home.

It's cruel, and somewhat negligent to leave her in the hands of a foreign foster system, but he has a five year plan that's well into its fourth year, and eyes on becoming the Emperor someday. He can't have a child.

"Good morning Aria, how have you been?" He asks that morning, slow like how the matrons tell him.

Aria shifts in the chair across from him, head bowed as usual. "I'm good." she says quietly.

"That's good, always good to hear," He smiles. Qator may be all smiles and tentative head gestures, but on the inside, he's screaming. Constantly screaming about how for the past two weeks, weaselling responses from his daughter has been his only human interaction. Her and the man who owns the supermarket downstairs from the hotel he's staying at.

This morning, he decides to ask Aria something.

"Why are you so quiet all the time? The matron says your mother would call you... energetic."

Well, 'crass' was the word, but rest in peace Melody Luricara, and her ability to compliment her daughter.

"My mother said..." she trails off into a whisper.

"You don't need to be so quiet all the time Aria, you can speak up." He thinks back to how his father acted to him and his little sister, all soft and sweet. It was his mother, true to the reputation of being a hard-working, bat shit crazy Militesi housewife that made him the tight ass he is today.

Aria takes a little breath, small and cute, just like her, and sighs.

"Thank frick! I was wonderin' when someon' was gonna let me!" She, for a lack of a better word, shrieks, throwing her father in for a complete loop.

"Wha...?"

"My mom's always like 'Please Aria! Don't talk that way in front of other people! They're gonna think I'm a bad mother!' and I was always like 'Jeez mom shut your frickin gob!' She was _sooo_ annoying about this..."

Qator watches perplexed as the teenager just... _talked._ The fact she didn't run out of words to say came as a genuine shock to him. She can't finish a sentence without putting a 'frick' or a 'heck' in the middle, and her general accent is grating to the ears. She's barely five foot for crying out loud! At least she's not saying anything more... explicit. He'd let her keep the kiddie swears, but she'd hardly get adopted if she has a mouth like that.

"Um, Mr Bashtar, Aria has lessons now, if you want to see her you could always come back tonight?" The matron says, and Qator tries to not look as relieved as he felt. He stands, gives Aria a slight smile, and turns towards the door.

"Can... can you take me out for ice cream today? My... my mother used to always take me out for ice cream on the 14th of a month... if it’s not too much bother Mister Bashtar..." she mumbles, sounding hurt enough to make the matron hold a hand over her heart in endearment. Aria's eyes say innocence and grief, but under her tongue, he could hear her sly, haughty voice ring through. She was gonna drag him all the way out into a city he had no clue how to get around! Jeez, she really was her mother's daughter... whoever her mother actually was.

"Would that be permitted? I don't want to overstep the system here...” The only thing faker than his smile and sincerity, is Aria's 'shy girl' demeanour.

And to his horror, the matron nods, obviously overcome with emotion, or suddenly interested in a bond forming between Qator and Aria. Maybe so then the girl would finally move out of the place, and she wouldn't have to fill out the millions stacks of paperwork that comes with putting a child into foster care. "Just come back at seven after her shower time, and she can stay over in your hotel room, if you want of course."

"I wouldn't-" He starts, until;

"That would be n-nice."

Qator turns around again, sends a deathly glare that would normally send the most hardened, tenacious soldiers running for the hills.

Aria _fricking_ smiles.

-

"Hi welcome to Tonberry’s how have you been." The young girl behind the checkout asks brightly, already scanning his items, of a simply child's toothbrush, a hairbrush for said child, and a pair of footsie pyjamas for a young boy. Qator's at that point in the day where he just couldn't give -in Aria's words- a frick, and wants it to be over. The girl -her name is Deuce- behind the checkout is no more than fifteen or sixteen, wearing the mini-mart's uniform of a thick red scarf. Each employee wears the red fabric in their own fashion, either as a cape or a tie, or like how some of them had taken to wearing, ripped to shreds hanging from the back of their shoulders.

"Crap." Qator responds, slapping down a multi pack of _Cactaur Gum._ Kids like gum, right? He did as a kid, wasted almost 5,000 Gil on straightening his teeth. The girl's eyes widen.

"What else do kids like?" He asks to no one, watches as the mid-afternoon traffic clogs up the road outside of supermarket. It’s a Tuesday for crying out loud, not even past three 'o' clock yet, and there's a major traffic jam, meaning there's people rushing to get home. It honestly baffles his mind that anyone living in this god forsaken nation could actually want to live here. Qator has a nice futon on the floor for his daughter with some cotton sheets and a pillow that doesn't feel too much like cement blocks. Maybe he could drop her off at the orphanage in the morning, the one deed as a missing parent he never got to do.

"Oh well books are always the captures of the mind," A boy stacking the shelves suggests. Qator knows that the minute Trey -the boy- starts, he’ll never shut up. "I mean, I personally like-"

"I mean, I've never been a father before. My plan was to just come up to this crap hole and sign over anything that needed my name on it. But no, I have to spend time with her?!" Qator pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Jeez, you're an asshole." The man sitting behind the checkout closest to the door says dryly. He wears a navy polo neck, grey tracksuit bottoms and flip flops, with a black mask covering his mouth and nose. There's a Tonberry on his lap, sitting between him and the notebook resting against his knees. The only reason why Qator can see his trousers and feet is because the man sits up on the checkout counter, pages sprawled along the belt and his legs resting against the broken computer. Qator knows this man, has been talking to him idly for the past two weeks when he shopped at the mini-mart. The man had a tendency to over share his thoughts with costumers, such as asking for advice on his screenplays.

"I'm aware I'm an asshole Kurasame, but what does that make you?" Qator fires back, watching as the rest of his shopping is packed by a fair haired boy -called Ace, he learnt during his first trip to Tonberrys- humming the same goddamn verse over and over again.

"Not as much as an asshole as you."

The blond boy snickers. Qator scoffs.

“Does a short novella about a girl with no legs who wants to be a dancer and her father questioning his sexuality sound like an interesting story?” Kurasame says

“I have told you this, every day, that none of your ideas are good. Not even in the slightest.”

“Speak for yourself,” the manager mutters.

"You're total is 145 Gil when you’re ready sir." Deuce says, folding her hands over the money tray.

"You don't take Militesi money do you?" Qator digs around his pockets for his Rubran money.

"Sorry sir, we don't." Ace quips, a polite smile on his face.

"Well," Qator declares, taking the bag from the boy's hand, slapping down 25 Militesi Gil. "You do now,"

"Kurasame!!"

The manager shrugs, flipping a page on the notebook.

-

"So what ice cream flavours do you get?"

"Goat cheese cashew caramel! Mom always wanted me to get sorbet but I don't hate myself or anything!"

Qator exhales, fixes the crease on the wrist of his shirt, and pulls his thirteen year old daughter out of getting hit by a bike.

In Rubrum, they use bikes. Qator can't remember the last time he rode a bike.

"What's your favourite flavour?" She asks when the light goes green.

Arkham is a small city for a capital city. There's a low crime rate and a lovely ambiance that just draws people into the wine and cheese tasting sessions in every cafe and free crochet lessons in the arts and crafts stores. People smile at each other as they pass and buy food for homeless people on the streets. He's from Milites, for crying out loud. They hardly have enough resources to waste for the wine and cheese itself, much less for a tasting session. He supposes it's what happens when you live in a nice climate not controlled by the military, and where every day rules get stricter and freedom gets harder to believe in. It took an arm and a leg, and a whole years’ worth of holidays to get out of Milites to see Aria. It's why he's glad this is happening now, Qator supposes, that he can get to Aria while he still can and ensure her future. Yes, he'll send money and pay for her education, write a birthday card every year, but that's it.

He makes a face "I don't like ice cream."

She whirls, face contorting into a shift imitation of his mother whenever he did anything stupid. Now that he thinks about it, Aria has a frightening amount of features often found in the Bashtar family. Her face shape and hair is from, where he presumes, her mother, but she has a cute button nose like how he does, her eyes are light and milky like his, and both of them have a habit of rolling their eyes and scoffing whenever someone does something idiotic. So far, between the both of them they've done it at least five times each, while talking to each other. "How can you not like ice cream?!"

"I'm from Milites," he drawls, watching as a baby takes its step for the first time or something; everything in Rubrum is like a miracle. "Why would we eat something the same temperature as the air around us?"

Aria pouts, adorable if she wasn't a teenager, but still cute. She eyes him up, starting at Qator's smart shoes and slacks, then up to his shirt, eye patch and quiff.

"You're hella frickin' weird, you know that mister."

"Just tell me where you get ice cream with your mom then we can go back to my hotel room. I bought extra channels for you tonight."

Aria beams, cheeks almost splitting from the newfound affection he’s suddenly giving her. “I know you’re just doing this so I won’t hate you or anything for putting me into foster care.”

“That’s the plan.” He says, without the cutesy, simple tone everyone seems to have around her. Qator may not consider her his child, but she’s still a Bashtar, a very intelligent one at that. His mother didn’t react when he told her about her granddaughter; she just simply shrugged off his past foolishness. He’d never outright ignore her if he didn’t know she could handle his bluntness, not how his parents were after Aisha died. Aria could handle herself with an absent parent. However, twelve year old Qator Bashtar could not.

The Chocobo Ranch ice cream parlour in central Arkham is nice. There’s little multi-coloured bulbs hanging from the ceiling, the floor is a mirror that cleans itself every time you lift your foot and there are stools and booths along the wide window at the front of the shop. One of the workers behind the counter flicks his wrist, a sheer coat of ice sliding over the front window of the display case. Like how Milites uses the White Tiger to power its cities, the Vermillion Bird does just the same, only rather as a luxury than a means of survival. In the display case, there’s a range of ice cream flavours to choose from, being replenished every time a worker takes a scoop. Children cheer at the action, flooding the little shop with youthful cries.

Qator hates it already.

“Do you wanna go order?” He says to Aria, who too, is enchanted by the magic ice cream. He wonders if she’d find the rolling trams and overhead trains infused with the White Tiger’s will.

“Jeez, you’re in some frickin rush aren’t you?” She scowls with a flourish of her hand.

“Just go get your ice cream.”

Qator stands at the back of the parlour close to the door. The sun sets out beyond the mountain that is the Peristylum of Rubrum, all mellow pinks and calming orange. The past two weeks, he’s seen the stars above more vividly and more clearly than any of the thirty two years he’s lived in Milites. They dotted above the horizon, like a prelude to the actual night. Qator takes a breath, smells the magic-infused ice cream drafting around the parlour. He questions if it's magic, or if it's simply just how ice cream parlours work. If this is a weekly occurrence in the lives of Melody and Aria Luricara, then Aria lived a lovely childhood. There’s a stab of grief for a split second, when he thinks about Aisha, and would she too want to meet Aria, and go get ice cream with them?

Would she want him to be the father Aria needs right now?

“Hey, mister, they don’t have the flavour.”

Qator is pulled out of his thoughts by Aria, who stands considerably shorter than him. She has a sour face on, probably because this family-centred little parlour doesn’t have her inane flavour.

“Didn’t have goat cheese cashew caramel? Wonder why.” He huffs, watching as her brow deepens. Qator sighs, nudging her lightly. “Where’s the next ice cream place you know?”

She lets one eye open to peak at him, sending him a notable look.

“Welllllllll, there is _one_ place.”

-

“What sounds better Nine, ‘tortured soul’ or ‘agonised identity’?” Kurasame asks the hulking boy mopping the floor.

Nine stops, resting his cheek on the top of the wooden mop. “Uhhhh, how about agonised soul? Mix it up y’know.”

Kurasame makes a face, crossing out the last line scribbled on the pad. Tortured soul was too, far too, common to use. Too many faux pas’ associating with it, too many edgy teens wasting their youth on the internet, with their ‘aesthetic blogs’ and graphic descriptions of choking their partner into the bedspread. Kurasame is a writer, and a professional one at that.

“Agonised soul…” He mutters, then writes it anyway. The chances of anyone other than Kazuza and Emina actually reading it is slim, he’ll care when an editor forces him to.

“So why is this a 24 hour mini-mart? Why don’t you just close it at eleven like normal stores do.” Cater, the girl on the cashier opposite him whines. Her voice is scratchy and high, and he’s based too many villains with off-screen deaths on her.

“Because how else will you make it through high school without my generous pay checks.”

“Education is free in Rubrum!” She cries shrilly, throwing her hands forward. The elderly woman in the line of her cashier smiles expectantly, and the sixteen year old is forced to be civil.

“Don’t mind her sir; she’s just a little pissy she doesn’t have a date to prom.” Eight, a short boy says next to him.

“I heard that you short little-”

“Language Cater, speak like that in front of customers or I’m putting you on spillage duty.” Kurasame chides, flicking to a new page in the notebook idly.

“Why does he even say that anymore…” Nine mutters into the mop, giving the floor a wide lick with the wet locks.

“Because my mother says it, and she is a lovely woman.” Kurasame responses of-the-cuff.

“Just because you’re a bitter writer with a senile mother doesn’t mean that everyone else has to be miserable as you!” Cater shot back.

“By the crystal, you are intolerable.” Kurasame says, only slightly hurt at the notion that his mother was senile.

“See, crabby because she can’t get a prom date.” Eight quips again.

Cater crosses her arms “Well, why don’t you man up and ask me like you've been telling Jack you will for weeks!”

Eight goes almost as red as his hair and eyes, until his only distinguishable features left on his face is his small nose and his full lips underneath, a thorough blush hiding his cheeks. Kurasame sighs at the displays of teenage hormones. Of all places, of all times, they decide to square off her, when the sexual tension between two of his workers could double in the steady afternoon heat.

“Enough, both of you. Eight; go check the fridges. Cater; one more incident and your off the till for a week.”

“Yes sir.” The two teenagers mutter, both returning to the jobs assigned to them.

Nine’s giggle breaks the silence.

He leans against the mop, a cheesy grin on his face “Heh, Eight likes Cater, hey.”

Kurasame makes a face under the mask. Teenage romance, too broad a genre to attempt to remake as a breakout author. The wounds of his own messy attempt of love still felt ridiculously raw, even almost ten years later. He turns the page and continues his newest novella, about a newfound relationship forged in the fires of grief.

-

They go to every ice cream parlour and shop in the entirety of the capital of Rubrum. Evening rests against the rooftops of Arkham, the layers of orange and red heavy in the sky. People slowly go about their lives, some returning home for the night as they languish in the mid-summer evening.

But to Qator and Aria Bashtar, they were on a mission.

“Can you believe nowhere in this cursed place has cheese caramel cashew ice cream. Nowhere!”

“Actually mister, its goat’s cheese caramel cashew ice cream.”

“I know that!”

Let’s recap. Before coming to Arkham, Qator Bashtar had never, had a fraction of an interest, nor stepped even an inch of a foot in ice cream parlours. His reasoning was if he wanted flavoured coldness in a cone, he might as well had rubbed mint leaves on snow and called it frickin’ ice cream. But in the past two hours, he has been to over thirty ice cream shops, in the city alone, all on a hunt for one short girl’s favourite ice cream.

They stopped at stalls, they went to cafes with their own booths and gelato shops that boosted a wide range of flavours he couldn’t give an ass about. The flavours were all the same too, just with different ‘quirky’ names and combinations. There was vanilla and then Van-million Bird ice cream, which was just vanilla ice cream dyed red in some awful act of patriotism. There was pistachios that had little edible faces on them, and tubs the size of Aria’s face you could fill with literally whatever the frick anything for as low as 80 gil. They even stepped into an Orience-renowned ice cream shop, known for its famous lobster ice cream from an article published on mogfeed a few weeks back. But instead of getting their desired flavour, they were laughed at by a snotty kid that probably lived with his parents, and actually paid genuine money on an eyebrow piercing that looked swollen.

“Sorry, we don’t have that flavour kid, but you could make it yourself?” A snicker slipped through.

Aria opened her mouth to argue, but was cut off by another low laugh coming from the workers. Aria is brave, and tough and strong and above all else she has Bashtar blood, but in that moment, in the face of laughing adults that think they know more, Aria looked dejected, and embarrassed, all at once.

Qator squared his shoulders, rolled up his sleeves to reveal the wide Militesi tattoo on his left forearm and repositioned his eye patch to look menacing enough to scare the crap out of new recruit. He wondered how an sleazy-grinned young adult scooping ice cream onto a waffle cone for the summer in between breaks of his arts degree would handle being stared down by Qator ‘the Unscathed’ Bashtar would deal. Even if Aria was thirteen, she still looked nine at the oldest.

“Excuse me; I don’t like how you spoke to my daughter there.” Qator said, bringing the parlour to a hush. The workers went white very quickly, all accept the grinning one who’d served, or, for a lack of a better word, spoke to Aria. “You didn’t even offer a substitute. Is there a reason for me to to take my business elsewhere?”

“No sir, it wasn’t.”

“What, you’ve had a bad day, or you can’t stand serving customers, you maybe you just like being an asshole to kids. Is that it?” Qator paused, pulling Aria against his front, two hands resting on her shoulders. He could’ve backed off, but the secret hidden smile Aria sent him the minute he went all in stopped him from even considering stopping then.

“That’s hardly the case sir.”

“Well then, I’m expecting an apology. To both me and my daughter, if it’s not too much of a hassle to ask. And should you be late with it, I’ll be inclined, as a citizen of Rubrum to contact my local health services and report the strange mould I keep seeing in between the metal of this frame.”

“I just-just wanted some ice cream…” Aria mumbled, the quiet facade from the orphanage back in place, along with her swaying hands and trembling shoulders. If Qator’s anger didn’t make them scared, then the tears filling up in Aria’s eyes was enough to make the guilt pierce.

The young man shuffled his feet, then looked at the pair, obvious fear in his eyes. He bowed lightly, a common sign of respect in Orience. “I’m sorry for being rude to you and your daughter. That was wrong, would you like any free flavour in any free size.”

Aria and Qator shared a look, almost to make it look like they were genuinely considering his offer. Instead of accepting it however, Aria burst into tears, pulled herself into his torso, and howled until the noise grated on his ears.

Qator scowled, ushering her out. “I’ll be back with a lawyer! You’ll hear from me again!”

But that happened almost an hour ago, and currently Aria and Qator wander through Arkham, heading back to his hotel room for the night. They laughed off the adrenaline of standing up to snooty employee, but they are tired now, somewhat disappointed with their results.

Qator isn’t going to lie, he feels guilty that he couldn’t get Aria the disgusting ice cream she wants. She was determined for this flavour, perhaps out of some kind of obligation to the memory of her mother, or to spite her mother for always buying her sorbet. He didn’t know Melody Luricara, and he certainly didn’t know Aria, but there is this strange feeling of disappointment in himself, his first failure as a parent.

“Hey mister, what’s Milites like?” Aria says, almost out of the blue.

Qator brings a hand to his chin to rest on his forefinger, considering deeply what parts he should put in and what he should leave out. “Uhh, it’s cold, a boreal climate really. There’s no small towns like in Rubrum, just small cities that everyone lives in, since it’s too risky to live alone in these conditions. We have a unique way of growing food and getting resources, that’s for sure. It's all crystal powered. We don’t have magic or dragons, but we can extract power from the White Tiger to help us live. We have trains and overhead trams which can be either floating death traps or actually quite fun.” He wet his lips, quirking them slightly “It’s not much I guess, very plain and cold. But it’s home, and I’ll do whatever I can to protect it.”

Aria nods, pointing her head to the stars above. “Ma never mentioned you. Probably because I never asked. It wasn’t til’ only a few months ago when I asked about you. So then when she died I said your name without thinking about it, an’ I got you involved and stuff.” She turns to look at him, vague upset in her eyes “Sorry about getting you all caught up in this. I just-”

“There’s no crime in wanting a parent Aria.” Qator says, confused at how sincere his words sound. “I mean, when my younger sister died- I guess she’d be your aunt- my father completely broke. She died from a low immune system, damaged by the constant cold. I always presumed he blamed himself for what happened, for not being able to afford a warmer house or better doctors or medicine that could help her.”

And while he talks, there’s something warm in his chest, followed up by the sharp understanding that his father essentially fell apart because he couldn’t protect his own child. Couldn’t save her from the grand reaper. He looks at Aria, sees Aisha in full health before it declined, and wants to take her into his arms, and at least, attempt to be her father. To make sure she didn’t get immunization dieses from the cold. He missed the first half of her life, compared to the years he spent with Aisha and her future taken from her so soon. But Aria has an entire lifetime left, years his father craved to have with his own daughter.

“Can I tell you a confession?” Aria says. “I’ve never actually had goat cheese caramel cashew ice cream before. I read about it somewhere and apparently it tastes like cheesecake. At first I just wanted to wind you up, but then you got all serious mad in that last place… Thanks for that. My ma never would’ve done that.”

A vague memory of a fair haired short woman in her late thirties who could only meet his eyes when heavily intoxicated floats out of his awful memory. And maybe she never did take Aria out for ice cream on the 14th of every month, but that didn’t mean Qator wouldn’t try.

“I think I might now one more place.”

-

There’s a strong possibility that Tonberrys is the only thing open in the entirety of the Dominion. The neon light beams down the city, standing out against the serene night customary to Rubrum. From the window Qator can see Kurasame sitting on the conveyer belt, the teenagers given the night shift, and the large ice cream freezer near the front of the shop as some ploy to lure children and their parents to get ice cream. But it never works, mainly because every single flavour in the prepackaged boxes are weird and strange. And Qator has a weird and strange daughter, so he’s willing to bet everything on this tiny mini-mart.

“Hey costumers,” The boy behind the desk says, yawning in the process. “Hey I’m Jack, welcome to Tonberrys.”

“Jack!” The dark haired girl at the front says “It was my turn to welcome them.”

“You took too long Queen!”

The tallest seventeen year old Qator has ever seen grunts in between them, and carries on texting whoever.

“Kurasame, you wouldn’t happen to have goat cheese caramel cashew ice cream?” Qator says on a prayer.

Kurasame blinks “Of course.”

Aria’s bottom jaw practically drops off, looking directly at her father who can’t keep the smug smile off his face. He was right in the end, as usual, even though he prefered to be successful before midnight.

“I said I’d get you some, didn’t I?” Qator says, pulling a pint of said ice cream out of the fridge. It’s almost 125 gil, but astoundingly worth it to see her eyes light up again.

Her face squeezes “You didn’t actually have to get any! Jeez, whaterya’ tryin’ do? Be my frickin dad or somethun’?”

The words leave his mouth before he thinks about them. “Only if you’d let me, Aria.” Qator’s smile is sincere and the world around him is surreal. He grew up with empty promises that _his mother would be nicer_ and that _Aisha will get better soon,_ and _your father has taken a bit of a shock, but that’s okay, he’ll get past this_ which then turned into _you’ll get passed this Qator._ The only promise Qator Bashtar has ever kept to himself is to never make promises, and here he is, standing in the middle of a nocturnal supermarket with his _daughter_ , who he’s realised is the most amazing person in the world, and is the probably the only thing he _likes_ in Rubrum.

-

They sit on the curb outside of Tonberrys, eating out of the tub. Both of them didn’t know what to expect of the frozen desert. Qator opened the lid, let the pungent smell of goat cheese waft and the sickly sweet swirls of caramel with little cashew indents in and around the creamy solid. Aria took the first bite, bringing their mission to a successful close. Heck, he’d even write a mission report if he had to.

“It does taste quite like cheesecake.” He says first, shovelling another load onto his spoon, but only taking the smallest morsel of a bite. It’s an aquired taste, that almost immediately after trying it, Aria declared it to be the ‘worst thing she’d ever frickin’ tasted’.

“I think I’ll stick to sorbet.” She says, taking another bite of her watermelon sorbet in a tub.

“Thought you didn’t hate yourself.” Qator mimics, almost swallowing the spoon when she elbows him in the side.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, you’re really frickin weird, for a dad.” Aria says, and Qator chuckles.

“She never mentioned you, by the way. I thought for a while I was adopted or something, just she really wanted a baby and thought she was runnin’ out of time or something. She was a really good mom.”

“You probably miss her.”

Aria takes a few seconds, and when she speaks, it sounds like it's thick with emotion. “Oh yeah, I definitely will.”

And it’s normal. The crystals could only take so much memory away, only so much pain could be eased after passing. Maybe if it was a different time, Orience would be far crueler than it is today, with its wars and it’s L’Cie and twelve children who die after fighting a war almost on their own. That feeling of relief every parent in Orience has whenever they think about the life their children could’ve lived flushes through him. Qator is glad Aria doesn’t have to live through that.

“I meant what I said by the way. I do want to be your father.” He says, as nonchalantly and passive as he can.

She eyes him “You’ve changed your tune?”

“Well, there’s something oddly fun about having a reason to yell at bratty teenagers for being assholes. And back in Milites I get paid to do that.”

“You’d never move to Rubrum?” Aria asks.

Qator sighs “No, I wouldn’t, quite frankly because I hate this cursed nation and every single ice cream parlor in this damn dominion.” He looks at her, considers what he actually knows about her, and decides something, very very quickly.

“Academia works as an international school. You live there during the year and spend whenever you want with me. I have a house in Ingram, it looks better than this hotel room.”

Aria quirks an eyebrow “You got any pets?” She asks.

“No, but I have Faith.”

She bursts out laughing “You have faith!”

Qator rolls his eyes with a shake of his head. “Faith is my housemate.”

“Your girlfriend?” She grins wickedly.

“An annoying subordinate who’d be homeless without me. He’s alright I guess.”

A silence passes, the unanswered question hovering above their heads. Aria is a Bashtar, and is very direct. There’s something they can build together, on shitty ice cream and sarcasm, and a thin layer of love to keep them together. It’s how families in Milites work, with very little love, but a lot of heart, and warmth to keep everyone alive. Four red-clad students patter into the mini-mart for the graveyard shift, scarily cheerful about the next few hours.

“Hey mister.”

“Yeah.”

“Can we go back to your hotel? I’m freezing my ass off here.”

“Hey, language.”

“Ass is hardly a swear! Jeez, you old people and your rules.”

“I’ll forget you said that, for your sake if you want to survive Milites.”

“Bring on old man!”

-

"...and so they stood, father and daughter together, up towards where the sun disappeared behind the stars that chased it. Their relationship ship was new, a fresh start for the both of them. And eventually, she'd learn to accept his sexuality, the way that all life forms on this planet accepted fate; with an easy understanding, and an honest outlook. He'd let her continue to dance, let her audition for the Emperor's own Ballet and watch as she tirelessly strived to conquer beyond the stars and moon, and past the planets and the universe, to extend into the nebulae in which all stars are born. They will grow, together, as a unit, and watch as their dreams slowly unfurled against a world unafraid to knock them down.  
  
They stood."  
  
Kurasame finishes it with a quick signature, before turning around to start up the old laptop in the shelves of the check out. Dawn spirals on outside the mini-mart, and anytime now, the morning shift will arrive. Maybe he'll give them the morning off, wave them off to enjoy their summer morning in peace. He could call Kazuza, give him a right laugh that he's actually finished a piece, and that somewhere in the 6,000 words it's taken to write it, there is a story about a father and daughter reconciling unknowingly, with a bright, fresh future ahead of them, as pure as the new snow that falls upon the Militesi soil.  
  
But first, he'll have a nap, reread it again, and decide who the frick would want to read that?


End file.
